Michael has two shirts. Maybe three. Michael eats after everyone else in the house has finished. I watch guests go back and forth. For seconds, for thirds. They never notice him. He waits until they've long left to take his portion, from what remains.
Michael wakes up before the sun rises. He prays in the darkness.
Michael defers all questions about the home to Bill, or to Walnes.
If you didn't know, you might think he was on the janitorial staff, a minimum wage employee in America- an extra set of hands.
But that's just it.
All he is. All
that Michael is-
Is hands.
His hands, his actions.
His money- always where his mouth is.
Tight lipped and gracious.
Holy.
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